IT’S official, I have turned in to my father!
All the years of slinking down with embarrassment into my seat in a restaurant when he complained if something wasn’t quite right have come back to haunt me.I now hear myself pointing things out to staff when something is amiss, and last Saturday evening it was a draught! Before, I would have sat in silence. But on Saturday, despite the fact the restaurant was divine and the food equally as appealing, I just had to say something. And I felt so much better for it! I did, politely, ask if I could move to another table and managed to get a seat in the window overlooking the Tay - perfect! The art of complaining is something which can obviously be mastered over the years. In this country service can be somewhat lacking, at times, compared to the service offered abroad where absolutely everything is “no problem”. My close friends can relate hilarious tales of what they have complained about, and how they have reached a “certain age” when they speak up for themselves. The best one has to be one who marched purposefully up to the customer service desk in a supermarket to complain about her wait to hear what was being done about an earlier complaint - brilliant. Never underestimate women of a certain age who acknowledge they are turning in to their parents. I guess we couldn’t be like better people!